After the End
by La Maddalena
Summary: What comes after happily ever after? / Xing Cai centric Shu fic, hints at Guan Ping/Xing Cai and Liu Chan/Xing Cai.


**Disclaimer: **Koei owns aaaaall.

**Author's Babble: **This was posted on the WoM a while back as a request. It came out better than I thought it would; I don't know why, but there's something I really like about it. And it seemed appropriate to put it up, since the year will be ending soon.

* * *

**After the End**

We could do nothing but grieve in the beginning. The times had spared no one—everyone had lost something, some had lost everything. Every year that passed added to the number of dear faces that we would never see again.

But, now...

_Peace._

The word bubbles up on its own, an unfamiliar sweetness in my mouth that refuses to remain unsaid. It's finally real, after so many years. As I wander through the castle, exchanging pleasant greetings and warm smiles with the dear companions who remain, I feel it all through my being for the first time.

I can't suppress the slight stab at my heart when I think that and recall my father and friends, brothers-in-figure and brothers-in-blood, my virtuous master and the heroes willing to die under his banner.

* * *

_"Everyone agrees that the end of the year is peacetime, Xing Cai. It's a sacred time, irreplaceable and holy, and moved by a will other than our own, I think." _

It's an odd, somber thing to say on an evening devoted to merrymaking, but she's not inclined to argue. Her young teacher is careful with his words, especially in her presence; most of what he says carries weight with it. And they share it, the burden of that weight.

"Today we honor the old and welcome the new, remember the dead and hold the living close without fear—however briefly." Fireworks burst into the sky, all noise and light and what appears to be joy. She has to lean close to hear his voice. "But one day the people will be able to wish their countrymen good health and prosperity without worrying when the fragile truce will break."

"...Hard to imagine." She doesn't mean to say so, but the words are out of her before she's aware of them. He only smiles, because to some extent what she says is true.

"It must be. You and I were born into this age, and grew up playing in its midst. Maybe that's the source of our strength."

"But don't you ever grow tired of it, Zilong?"

"It's hard not to tire of it, I suppose. When you're young and hot-blooded you love war for the glory; when you grow older--and dreaming of real, lasting peace is all agony and longing--you're disillusioned. Still, after years and years of that disillusionment... you begin to familiarize yourself with the idea that the battlefield is the only place you'll ever belong."

He's silent for a long while after that, watching the play of embers in the sky. Then he laughs; if it sounds a tiny bit forced, his pupil knows better than to comment.

"I'm sorry; this is foolish talk. I shouldn't say that sort of thing, least of all to you."

"...Do you think we'll see the end of it, then?" she asks, wisely steering the conversation into calmer waters. The future seems easier to talk about than the present.

"You might," he answers. He looks, maybe, a little sad as he does so. "You are our hope."

* * *

I look out over the courtyard and see the fireworks are being set up. There are more of them this year than we've ever had before; the sky will be all smoke and light tonight. I remember he loved that part of New Year best of all.

Things are changed, all changed. And for as long as I knew him, Zilong my teacher never changed. I think now that I've grown a little I know what he meant, that one last night of the year when he talked about belonging. Maybe his peace wasn't to be found here. Maybe the peace of many wasn't to be found here.

He called me their hope, but I remember and feel like a child.

_Honor the old and welcome the new. Remember the dead and hold the living close._

Once I've seen to it that everything is ready outside, and no one is in danger of losing a finger, I say a brief prayer for his soul and my own before turning inward to the kitchens. The cooks are running themselves ragged in good spirits. Their worries are simple worries—what his Lordship likes best and least, what would serve best on the good china, whether or not anything on their menu will make someone burst out into a rash... I'm happy for the lot of them, in spite of myself, and tell them to bring out the wine while they're at it, the best wine we have.

* * *

_Her father beams down at her; his fierce warrior's eyes have become deceptively tender--and, she thinks, a little glazed over at the prospect of new wine? _

"There's my big girl. How about a drink or two with your papa to ring in the New Year?"

She smiles back knowingly, aiming a light punch at his shoulder.

"No, thanks. Someone's going to have to haul all you coarse old soldiers back to your beds tonight."

That makes him laugh, so heartily that his face turns as red as any wine could make it. Consciously or not, Zhang Fei does everything with his heart.

"Well, now, you've developed some pretty coarse speech yourself. What's that Lady Huang teaching you? How to give a man a good tongue-lashing, eh?"

"She's certainly taught me that you men are likely to get so drunk on New Year's that you'll be seeing fireworks long after they've all burnt out."

They chuckle softly together at this for a few moments, but then a frown knits her brow, and something possesses her to take the arm of the man who's appeared so indomitable all her life, almost as though she doesn't know if he'll be quite so indomitable when the New Year comes.

"…Father, when do you think we'll be able to set off fireworks in a time of peace?"

It isn't an offhand question; it means something to her, and he knows that. But she's not a child anymore, so he tells her the truth.

"Probably not for some time yet, my girl." He makes a little rueful noise in his throat—at her, maybe, for asking questions that have no answers. "I tend to think it'll be a long, long while."

She has nothing to say to that. Her father's eyes shine with a near-melancholy light that has nothing to do with liquor.

"...But I guess that depends on how hard the likes of us fight," he says at last with a sigh, and chucks her gently under the chin.

* * *

The men will certainly be more than drunk tonight, if I know anything about the matter, but I'm a little relieved to know that none of them can quite knock them back like my father could. There was no one I knew better and no one I loved more, but honestly, all that drinking... My throat closes a little. My father's shoes have always been hard to fill, but I like to think that he would be proud of the way I'm trying to fill them.

At any rate, my duty as overseer is done. I really haven't grown into the idea of playing headmistress yet, but it pleases people to some extent, I think... And it keeps them happy. My husband says it's because even as the world is being rebuilt, the builders need someone to look too.

I should really go see him. What with all his duties and my own, I haven't had the chance to all day. But he'll forgive me if I'm a little late. Maybe he'll even know where I've been.

You can see the entire castle town from the roof, and the land beyond all the way to the mountains in the north. I can still climb to the top from the balcony without much difficulty, though I'm sure that will change as all things do.

I have to pinch myself mentally to stop thinking about the future, and I've had to do it constantly today to remind myself not to dwell too long on the past. What matters is here, now—the swaying of the trees, the bustling down below, the smell of a more forgiving age in the wind.

Pity that I can't help myself, not really.

* * *

_The fireworks spent themselves long ago. She's finding it a little difficult to see through the smoke, but if she inclines her head a little she can hear the drunken singing issuing from the banquet hall. They'll be doing that until morning, like as not, and come morning they'll be too hung over to move. _

Thank the gods for the year-end truce, however short-lived.

He's a sturdy young man, but he can move light as shadows when he has a mind to. She doesn't notice his arrival until he's close enough to touch, her face betraying no surprise.

"You're not drunk too, are you?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Shame." Her eyes dance, bright with laughter though her voice remains even. "You're cute when you're intoxicated. You can never stand up quite straight."

The smoke is thick yet, with no wind to clear it, but she can see the flush that colors his face. The laughter breaks free. "Oh, Guan Ping. Happy, happy New Year."

"And to you." He folds his legs up under him, his eyes trained away from her. Their shoulders brush together in a gesture that's not quite accidental. She lets out a breath, not quite a sigh, and touches the back of his hand with slender fingers.

"It's wonderful here," he murmurs after a few moments' pause. "So peaceful."

"Will it last long, do you think?"

"Forever, someday."

"Someday," she repeats, pulling her knees up to her chest like a ward against the cold she doesn't really feel. It's a moment before she notices the shadow that darts across his visage, briefly. Another moment and it's gone again. "...Why're you looking at me like that, Ping?"

"Because I love to look at your face."

This earns him a swat to the head, without strength, but still forceful enough to put stars in his eyes for a second or two. The shadow slides back into place. He should really have known better to hide anything from her, even these sudden pangs of pain that hit without warning.

She answers her own question before he can. "You're worried we won't make it to someday."

"I had thought that," he admits. He has the decency to look a little sheepish as he does so. She just shakes her head, clucks her tongue, never once giving voice to the fact that it troubles her too, sometimes.

"And it's never occurred to you that maybe—just_ maybe—we might?" _

A grin. "I had thought that too."

"Oh, you stupid boy." She's suddenly tempted to hit him upside the head again, jokingly, but jokes are half-meant. "Sometimes I hate you."

An arm lays itself across her shoulders. He's braver than he gives himself credit for. Her body, foolish thing, melts against his, head pillowing itself on his strong shoulder. "No matter, if most times you love me."

* * *

It still stings to remember; maybe it always will. But you either learn to live with the sting, or life moves on without you.

Another arm slips around me; my husband perches on the tiles at my side. I don't regret the effort and patience learning to be with him took, after the chaos and the grieving. His heart is big enough for me and all my ghosts; I owe him my devotion and more. He doesn't need to speak to tell me he knows that.

Evening will fall soon, but the celebrations won't begin for at least another hour. I lean against him and close my eyes. He's a little soft around the edges, the dear man, and not battle-hardened at all, but I love him. The people will love him just as well, I hope; he'll be good to them. He'll make a good ruler… and I'm slowly getting used to the idea of myself standing in the wings.

Perhaps we will relearn to fly together.

"I didn't think you could make it all the way to the top," I tell him. He understands what I mean well enough.

"That's all right, my love," he replies, dropping a kiss on my forehead. It warms me all the way through. "I forgive."

**Fin**


End file.
